


for years we rhymed in couplets

by leigh57



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Fluff without Plot, is no porn no plot a thing, the one where josh and donna talk about hot chocolate, unapologetic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23914450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: It's the night before president-elect Santos' inauguration, and nobody's sleeping.
Relationships: Josh Lyman/Donna Moss
Comments: 32
Kudos: 90





	for years we rhymed in couplets

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the impromptu Spring 2020 Multifandom Quarantine Ficathon and the prompt is Josh/Donna, loquacious. Giant thanks to [adrenalin211](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrenalin211) for reading and to [lowriseflare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowriseflare) for organizing this delightful endeavor.
> 
> The title is from Chris Smither's 'Leave the Light On.'

The second thing that occurs to him — after he knocks the syrup off the counter and sends it hurtling across the cold wooden floor — is that this wouldn’t have happened if he’d put the damn syrup back in the cupboard where it belongs, in front of the organic honey he felt pleased with himself for buying but has used exactly once.

The first thing that occurs to him is that on the off chance Donna was asleep, she’s definitely not asleep now.

He pads to the fridge as quietly as he can, just in case. Eyes achy, he squints against the sudden light when he opens the door. An army of Donna’s latest kombucha obsession is lined up in front of the milk he needs, four or five new flavors with ridiculous names like ‘Clear Mind’ and ‘‘Happiness’ juxtaposed with basic labels like ‘Watermelon’ or ‘Wild Mango.’

Full-time living with another human still feels oddly new, despite the fact that Donna moved in almost three months ago. Okay, maybe he has a flash of irritation when he manages to trip over her slippers on his way out of the bedroom or he can’t find the shirt he wants because she reorganizes his closet when she’s bored, but most of the changes would unquestionably fall into the “good” category. He likes the warm scents of the candles she’s always buying — vanilla or apple cider or pumpkin — and it makes him smile when he has to peer behind the leave-in conditioner to find his razor refills.

He’s almost managed to extract the milk when he hears her say, “Why don’t you stop sneaking around out here and make me some hot chocolate too?”

She’s leaning forward with her elbows on the counter, chin in her hands, and the deep red of the snowman pajamas CJ bought her for Christmas makes her skin even paler in the soft light. (In a second she’ll start tapping her ankle against the leg of the stool she’s perched on, but she hasn’t been still quite long enough for that yet.)

“Sorry I woke you up,” he mutters.

“You really think I was sleeping, Joshua? When we have to be there in exactly-“ She glances at the microwave clock. “Four hours and seven minutes?”

”More like I wished.” He shrugs, holds up three packets for her to survey. “You want the dark chocolate, the chocolate raspberry, or this weird gingerbread shit?”

“I’ll have the gingerbread shit, just so you can be mad when it’s better than yours.” She’s grinning at him, positively twinkling with amusement even though nothing at all is really that funny (that expression he’s seen five thousand times and hopes he lives long enough to see five hundred thousand more). He stops for a second to appreciate how much he adores every single crinkle that decorates the edges of her eyes. They weren’t there a decade ago, and he’s pretty sure he’s directly responsible for 97% of them.

Her foot starts the tapping. “Do you know how long the shortest inaugural address was?”

“I do not.” He pours the milk into a pan and turns the burner to medium.

“One hundred and thirty-six words.”

“Well that would make today a lot faster, wouldn’t it?”

“Shut up.” She reaches for the tub of peanut butter pretzels and opens it, popping a couple into her mouth.

“So who was the word economy genius?” He gives the milk a halfhearted stir and forces himself not to flip his phone over to see if anyone’s texted him in the last five minutes.

“George Washington, actually. His second inaugural address.”

“How long was the longest one, since I know you’re dying to tell me.” He smiles when she shoves his knee with her foot.

“Eight thousand, four hundred and forty-five words. William Henry Harrison.”

“Wait, wasn’t he dead like a month later?”

She stuffs another pretzel in her mouth, her response muffled by the crunching. “Yep, he was. Apparently some people thought it was punishment for being so loquacious.”

Josh pauses, the syllables echoing in his head, but in a voice that isn’t Donna’s. It takes him a second to place the moment in history. It feels strange in his mind, like going backwards on a train with no warning.

“That’s the first adjective Hoynes ever used to describe you.” He stirs the milk with more conviction now, doesn’t want it to get that gross film on the top.

“Loquacious?”

“Yeah. You went off on something about misappropriation of taxpayer money, and when you left to get us coffee he said, ‘Is your assistant always so . . . loquacious?’”

She smirks. “And what did you tell him?”

He drops the spoon for a second and leans across the counter to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I told him that you were usually loquaciouser and that it was one of my favorite things about you.” Thumb stroking her chin, he kisses her, soft and quick, tastes the salt on the edge of her mouth.

“That’s not a word.” She grabs the worn heather grey tee he’s wearing and pulls him in for another kiss, this one longer and more committed. God she feels good, and honestly he could stand there for the rest of the night, kissing her while the warmth of her fingers moves through his shirt and deep into his chest.

She lets him go. “And you shouldn’t have lied to the Vice President.”

“I didn’t.”

Out of nowhere, her eyes get that faraway look. “You know, the more he wanted me to shut up, the more nervous I got and the more I talked. Drove him crazy.”

Josh doesn’t need half a beat to know they’re not talking about Hoynes anymore.

“He secretly loved it. He just . . . hid it well.” He watches the steam rise off the milk in a little cloud, wonders if he’ll ever figure out how to hate it less that Leo isn’t here to witness the day he made happen.

“Do you think he would have liked the Wang or the Armani?” Her foot’s still faintly tapping the stool.

“I think he’d have said you were stunning no matter what you were wearing, and I think he’d have been right.” He swallows and grabs the milk from the stove.

It’s quiet for a long moment, that odd presence of absence, a solid space for the sadness.

Then she jumps off the stool, landing right in front of him and smoothing her hands over his shoulders and into his hair. “By the way, have I mentioned how completely _hot_ you look in that suit?” Her lips brush his throat just beneath his jaw, and he shivers when she exhales.

“You might have.” He grabs the back of her thighs and pulls her even closer, the smooth flannel of her pajamas soft and cool against his hands. “But you can tell me again if you really wanna.”

“What if I show you instead?” Her voice has dropped at least a fifth, and he can already feel his whole body responding, despite the fact that it’s zero dark thirty and they’re both exhausted.

“What about the weird gingerbread shit you were so determined to lord over me?”

“You're deeply invested in talking about hot chocolate right now?” Her hands slip beneath the waistband of his sweats. “This is the conversation you’re wanting to have?”

“No.” He kisses her, again and again until her lips are warm and open on his and he can hear her breathing. “No, it’s definitely not.”

“Good, because I’m about to rock your world with _all_ the inspiration that suit gives me.”

“Can’t wait.” And he lets her lead the slow dance down the hallway to their bedroom.


End file.
